An Accidental Shroud Page 2

  The neglected garden with its rusty old laurels and gloomy yews was yet to be tackled and Jake, pleased with what she'd achieved inside the house, had agreed to leave this to her. Undaunted by the prospect, Christine, who'd never owned a garden in her life, was already reading up on the subject, making copious notes, asking advice, ready for when the cooler weather and the time for planting came.

  Not too much change, she thought: the unchecked growth of beech and ash saplings, for instance, had grown into a pretty little coppice where all sorts of wild flowers grew. Sometimes at dusk small, chestnut-brown muntjak deer came down to graze at the edge of the wood that bordered the property, and occasionally even jumped the fence into the garden, though they were too shy to let her get near enough even to photograph them. Once or twice at night she had heard their peculiar bark, weird and ghostly and faintly chilling.

  She had gradually eased herself into what was for her a very different way of living, though she knew that, ultimately, all this would not be enough. She'd worked all her life and was incapable of dribbling her time away.

  It would have been a different story if Nigel had kept his promises. Christine knew that was the major reason for her present restlessness and dissatisfaction. Nigel's image came into her mind: dark, urbane and immaculate. Polished, tanned skin, deep-set eyes, a sophisticated and rather devious man.

  Damn Nigel.

  In the sapphire-blue swimsuit her body gleamed like a kingfisher's as she stood up in one lithe movement, dived into the pool and swam, fast and with some style, several times across its length. As was usual with Christine, action made her feel temporarily better. It was not being able to do anything about a worrying situation which defeated her.

  Something was in the wind, the old man was sure. Nigel had on his new dark suit and a pale grey shirt and wore the heavy gold cufflinks and the Roman-mounted lapis-lazuli intaglio ring which an hour earlier had been reposing in the display case; he looked prosperous and urbane – not, however, as self-assured as usual. He was slightly on edge, and he'd given Matthew the day off. Taken together, the signs were that something was going on that he didn't wish either Matthew or George to know about.

  'How's your pill supply, Father? Wouldn't it be as well to slip round this afternoon and get Ison to top it up? Can't afford to find yourself without, you know,' he suggested to George, critically assessing the large professional flower arrangement which had just been delivered, one of which was always kept by the door of Cedar House Antiques. Nigel was extremely particular about the impressions such things made. Although the shop was still fitted in the quietly opulent style his grandfather had created – an Edwardian elegance that formed a perfect backdrop for the sparkling gems they sold – he saw to it that it was beautifully kept and decorated. A grey carpet and pale walls, champagne nets and dark blue velvet drapes at the side windows, through which could be seen a glimpse of the big cedar tree on the lawn outside the white, Georgian building; the old display cases also lined with dark blue velvet, a discreet glassed-in office at the back of the shop. Tasteful in a conservative, understated style – if too overstocked, in George's opinion. Nigel was inclined to buy what he personally coveted and was then unable to bring himself to sell it.

  He answered Nigel's suggestion with a tetchiness in his voice he heard too often lately. 'I'm not so senile yet that I can't look after my own welfare. I've already arranged with Ison to let me have more pills.'

  Nigel said nothing more for the time being, point taken, but looking up from his desk a little while later, he remarked, 'Do me a favour. Father, would you, and walk along to Oundle's this afternoon and pick up that new reference book I ordered? They rang this morning to say it'll be there by four.'

  Pills! Reference books! A visitor was expected, without doubt. Quite possibly female, and if so, young. Nigel had always been very attractive to women. He had a way of looking at them which conveyed a genuine interest in what they said and did, and a smile, deeply indented at the corners, that they seemed to find irresistible. They passed through his life regularly, in greater numbers than he let on, but conforming to a certain type. He liked to maintain the fiction that these affairs were not generally known about, certainly not to his father. George, though uneasy about them, didn't disabuse him. In his own way, he could be as cagey as Nigel.

  He's my father all over, George thought, pottering about, covertly watching his son: Henri Fontenoy as he was when he took over the business from his father, Edouard, the founder of what had then been Fontenoy Gems. Shrewd and go-ahead and, in Nigel's case, confident enough to be forever urging his father to expand, even in these difficult times. Not content with branching out into selling silver and small antiques, as well as fine old jewellery. But George (he'd dropped the 's' at the end of his given name years ago; the family was British now, and proud of it) was stubborn, and clung to the old ways. That one disastrous foray into modern jewellery, many years ago, wasn't something he was anxious to repeat.

  Nigel remained uncharacteristically fidgety for the rest of the morning, making from time to time further suggestions as to how George might occupy himself during the afternoon, but George had no desire to go out. He wanted to stay where he was, in the shop, his place for over fifty years, if only to be there should any customer need his specialist advice on what piece of jewellery to buy. And, incidentally, to find out what Nigel was up to; although, in effect, George accepted that he no longer had the automatic right to expect to be told every little thing. His world had lately changed to a place where he was not the one who gave the orders, a fact he'd been forced to accept since his stroke. It was Nigel who was now in charge.

  'I might wander up and see Christine,' he said at last, putting Nigel out of his misery, adding that he'd better make the most of this hot weather. Couldn't go on much longer, it must break soon, which would mean he'd be confined indoors. He was committed, since his stroke, to taking regular exercise, and though he affected to despise doctors, Ison was a sound man whose advice George usually took, if sometimes with bad grace.

  'Good idea,' Nigel replied, over-hearty with relief, 'but I should get her to drive you back. The walk there's quite far enough.'

  George knew himself quite capable of walking both ways, and that it would be good for him to do so. The heat didn't affect him – at his age, the problem was keeping warm enough. He didn't say so, or remind Nigel that Christine, when he'd spoken to her on the telephone not an hour since, had said that Lindsay was coming home for the weekend. And since she always met Lindsay off the four-twenty, she wouldn't be at home. It would do no harm, however, to lull Nigel into thinking he would be out of the shop for the time it took to walk along to Ham Lane and back, plus half an hour or so for a cup of tea when he got there. Evidently that would serve to keep George away long enough, or would have done if George had had any intention of making the abortive visit, which he had not.

  2

  Earlier that same morning, walking down to the site office after parking the car, Jake's immediate attention had been caught by the sight of Matthew, deep in conversation with Joss Graham over the engine of one of his bright yellow lorries, WILDING painted in two-foot letters down the sides. His first pleased surprise at seeing Matthew there was immediately quenched when he saw the animation drain from the boy's face as he looked up and saw his father.

  Jake's reaction to how much this hurt put him wrong-footed from the start. 'If you must smoke, don't do it here, and certainly not over that petrol tank,' he said shortly. 'You should both know better.' They put out their cigarettes, Joss immediately, his attractive, lazy smile apologetic – he knew smoking was forbidden, for obvious reasons, and wasn't normally either insubordinate or foolish. Matthew, however, only put his out after taking another defiant pull. 'I'd like a word, Matthew, in the office. If you can spare a minute.'

  Jake, raising his voice above a churning cement mixer and the sound of another lorry depositing a load of hard-core, realized too late how the words would sound to Matthe
w. Tact was not his middle name, he reflected wryly, as he walked to the portakabin that served as site office, red dust rising in little puffs round his feet. He heard the boy's reluctant footsteps behind him and could visualize the resentment already building up. Hell's teeth! He tried to remind himself to tread as though on eggshells whenever he spoke to Matthew and yet he heard himself saying all the wrong things, to which Matthew predictably responded, either with one of his smart-alec retorts or faintly veiled insolence. He never acted that way with anyone else. It was a phase he was going through, everyone said. He'd been such an appealing little boy; remember what pals he and Jake had always been?

  The implication being, Jake felt, that it had all been his fault. Yet however hard he tried, Jake couldn't seem to get through any more. Adolescent behaviour he could just about cope with, but this bloody-mindedness was something else. Matthew was, after all, nearly nineteen.

  He'd long since dismissed the notion that Matthew resented his marriage to Christine, or was jealous of his affection for Lindsay, they all got on too well. But Jake's divorce had happened when Matthew was a mere baby and he'd never discussed the details with Matthew; why Naomi had left him for another man, leaving him to fulfil the role of both parents. In fact, it hadn't been until he was already entering his teens that Matthew had showed any sort of curiosity about his mother. Yet to discuss Naomi's faults and imperfections with a vulnerable thirteen-year-old boy hadn't seemed like a good idea, then or now; Jake had skirted the subject, finding it impossible to explain the disaster that had been Naomi to him. Impossible to explain Naomi to anyone! Christine had suggested that maybe Matthew blamed Jake for what had gone wrong. It would have been a disturbing thought, if true. Jake didn't believe it, however. That wasn't the main reason for Matthew's present intransigence.

  Reaching the temporary office, he turned to wait for his son before pushing open the office door.

  'Morning, Thelma.'

  'Morning, Mr Wilding. Nice to see you, Matthew.'

  Thelma must have seen Jake arrive on site. Another gooey layer had been added to her lipstick, her library book pushed into a drawer and coffee, the rich dark brew she knew he liked, was already made. He felt, as usual, exasperated with her. He'd told her he didn't mind what she did on the days when she worked here and not at his main office in town. Whether she knitted, read her library romances, filed her nails or twiddled her thumbs, as long as the work was done – and God knows, there was little enough of that to keep her fully occupied at the moment. Thelma, however, middle-aged, widowed and motherly, had old-fashioned ideas about keeping up appearances. She reached for another mug as Matthew came in with his father and carried the coffee on a tray into the adjoining office. A plate of her home-made Shrewsbury biscuits came with it. There was a single yellow rose in a crystal bud vase set incongruously on the rough table that served as a desk.

  Matthew reached for a biscuit and took a large bite. 'Mmm. Brilliant!' In fact, the biscuits were nothing special. Good and wholesome, but nothing particularly out of the way. But being charming (to everyone except his father) was a natural part of Matthew's likeable personality, one that endeared him to everyone – especially females, judging by his string of girlfriends. Even Thelma, normally immune to flattery, was smiling plummily back.

  When she had poured the coffee and left them to it, Jake remarked, 'To what do we owe this honour, Matthew? Shouldn't you be at the shop?' He tried to make his tone light but for the life of him he couldn't keep out the derogatory inflexion. Matthew, however, merely shrugged. He was wearing the dark suit and discreet tie he wore for work. He looked extremely personable but curiously out of keeping. A track suit, jeans, casual clothes of any kind was more his style, the style that complemented his outdoor tan, crisp, short dark hair and the compact, athletic figure.

  'Cousin Nigel,' he said, 'has decided to give me the day off, in lieu. The policy's to open all hours from now on, even Thursday.'

  Jake never could work out what Matthew's real feelings were towards Nigel – not, in fact, his cousin, but Jake's – nor what his attitude towards his job with him was. For one thing, he was so damned independent it was difficult to imagine him being beholden to anyone. Another thing was the job itself. Impossible, even a few months ago, to imagine Matt working in the rarefied atmosphere of Fontenoy's. From childhood, it had been difficult to keep him off any site of his father's. He was familiar with everything that was going on, with future plans, he knew everyone, had a working relationship with plant, machinery, the whole works. There had never been any question of him doing anything else but join Jake in the business when he left school.

  Jake, who was the first to admit he hadn't the faintest idea how to go about handling this new Matthew, pushed the problem to one side. And belatedly, what Matt had just said about Thursday closing suddenly registered with him.

  Thinking about it, he decided that if Nigel was prepared to discard the time-honoured custom of half-day closing midweek, his claim that he was really feeling the pinch might not be the simple ploy to get the loan repaid that Jake had thought. That didn't mean Nigel had forgotten the bloody loan, however, not he! Or was prepared to extend its repayment. Not that it was a matter of life and death to either of them, but in the circumstances, its recall would be embarrassing. Jake rubbed a hand down his chin and looked speculatively at Matthew. He decided to speak, even at risk of the rebuff he knew would come.

  'If he decides to cut down on staff – well, there's always room for you in the business, you know that.' And always would be, even if it meant getting rid of someone else.

  'If there is –' Matthew began.

  'If there is a business much longer', was what he'd been going to say, Jake knew. It would have been a perfectly justifiable remark. The building and construction business was, to put it mildly, in the doldrums. He didn't know why Matthew had bitten off the comment – it was too much to believe that he was having qualms of conscience, or even beginning to realize that all this constant sniping was hardly the best way to get round his father.

  Matthew had, in fact, hastily broken off the careless words because he knew it was all too easy, these days, to trigger off one of Jake's right royal rages. Admittedly, they never lasted long, but it was smart to avoid them, or to keep your head below the parapet while they did last.

  This present site was Phase One of a development of thirty luxuriously fitted, executive-style homes. One or two were actually occupied, a few more spoken for, but despite massive reductions on the original price, most remained unsold. Yet the real fly in the ointment, as far as Jake was concerned, was the other, adjoining site. The ten acres – and on it the derelict house, unoccupied for dozens of years – which Jake had bought with the intention of demolishing, and which had then, by some fancy footwork on the part of local conservationists, had a preservation order slapped on it. So there the old house still stood, where the new Save All hypermarket, which would have been Jake's saviour, should by now have been rising. Save All were becoming restive, there was every prospect they'd pull out of the deal. Jake, the great Jake, had come unstuck. Instead of being one step ahead, as he always prided himself on being, he'd been two steps behind.

  But no way was Matthew going to start feeling sorry for Jake! He'd plenty of other irons in the fire. He drained his coffee and said suddenly, standing up, 'Well, as far as Nigel goes, I'm not staff, I'm one of the family. And anyway, it's what I want to do, right?'

  'Is it? Is it really?'

  They stared at one another, Matthew uptight and aggressive at what he took to be his father's sarcasm, Jake trying so hard not to be that the cords stood out on his neck.

  'I have to go. What was it you wanted?' Matthew asked abruptly, carefully avoiding the use of Jake's name. It was as if 'Dad' had become a dirty word lately.

  'It can wait. Oh, all right, then,' Jake added as Matt raised his brows. 'I only wondered if it's such a good idea coming on site to see young Graham – maybe it would be better to arrange to see him outs
ide working hours.'

  Jake thought he'd couched this as a suggestion rather than an order, but Matthew stiffened. 'I only called in for a minute because he's co-driving for me this weekend and I wanted to fix things up.'

  And here they were again. Back to the real crunch point. Rally driving, which was Matthew's current obsession. If he'd had the money he'd have defied Jake and gone for it, not only as the hobby which it presently was, but as a full-time career, which was what he was naive enough to think it could be. It was the root cause of all the trouble between them. Jake had the upper hand at the moment because he held the purse strings, but he knew that was no real answer.

  'Fair enough,' he said, for the moment defeated. He was enough at loggerheads with Matt without adding to it over this. He could hardly complain about him coming to the site, when it was the one thing he tried to encourage. Nor could he grumble about his association with Joss Graham, seeing that he approved of so little else about Matthew these days. He liked Joss, with the reservation that he considered he was wasting his training as a microbiologist, working on a building site. But that was his own affair. He was at least willing to work at whatever he could find, and not content to live on the dole, like so many with his educational achievements these days, unable to find a suitable position when they'd qualified. He had an open, friendly manner, he was a hard worker and, as far as Jake could see, no bad influence on Matthew – though Jake had made it plain enough that he didn't consider it wise for them to get too friendly. If Matthew eventually did come into the firm, it would only make matters difficult. 'Fair enough,' he repeated, 'only don't make it too much of a habit.'

  Matthew looked sullen, sketched a hasty farewell and Jake watched him roar off in his hotted-up Golf GTI, in a cloud of red dust. An intensely physical person, too interested in cars and sport and outdoor activities of any kind to have made much impression at school, totally uninterested in anything remotely artistic, only a perfect idiot would believe Matthew had any special, burning desire to spend the rest of his life selling antique jewellery.